The Hospital
by themightypen
Summary: The story of Ana's hospital after she left work. (Warning: gore)
1. Default Chapter

"Damn I hate this job."  
  
Chuck Bundy sighed and shook his head as he stared down at the ashtray.  
The ashtray itself was standard industrial, a knee-high black cylinder  
with a chrome bowl resting on top. Inside of the bowl, and running over  
the edges in slimy strings, the mucus and tobacco remains of someone's  
spit covered the bottom in a small puddle.  
  
Chuck put on his plastic gloves and lifted the bowl from the cylinder. He  
could feel the bits of chewing tobacco under his thumb as he upended the  
bowl into the open trash bag on the end of his push cart. It ran out  
quickly at first, and then tapered off to a thin line of brown drool.  
  
Chuck sighed again and rolled his eyes. The image of some hillbilly, of  
some big dumb red-neck in overalls came to him, standing by the ashtray  
and spitting in it like there was no tomorrow. Not a care in a world that  
someone would have to come behind him and clean it up.  
  
"Asshole," Chuck grumbled under his breathe. He took a spray bottle of  
all-purpose cleaner and gave the bowl a heavy spraying. He then tore a  
sheet from a roll of brown paper towels and wiped it down before placing  
it back onto the cylinder.  
  
"Yeah, just spit on over here. The nigga'll get it," he complained under  
his breathe. He threw the used paper towel in the trash and got behind  
the cart.  
  
"Bastard."  
  
He leaned into the cart and pushed it towards the ER, his irritation  
already subsiding. At ten and a quarter an hour, the job didn't pay much,  
but it was easy work. The chances were that he'd not have to do too much  
for the rest of the night. Wipe down a window or two, empty a trash can  
here and there. The day shift handled most of the cleaning, coming in  
early and cleaning the lobby and restrooms. Chuck, being the only night  
janitor, just got whatever needed immediate attention. The biohazards, as  
Chuck would call them. Those body fluids that people would lose, blood or  
urine or worse, that could carry disease. But that didn't happen too  
often, not in this area, so usually Chuck would just push his cart around  
for an hour or so, and then sit out the rest of his shift in the break  
room watching television, or grabbing a nap in one of the unused beds.  
  
He heard them coming before he saw them and instantly aimed his cart  
towards a wall and out of the way. A second later and they appeared; two  
paramedics and a nurse with a woman lying on a mobile stretcher. They  
came around the corner which lead from the ER's ambulance entrance and  
turned a hard left, running down the corridor and into one of the  
operating rooms.  
  
There were three things that Chuck noticed about the woman as the  
paramedics wheeled her past. The first was that she looked Hispanic and  
around the age of thirty. The second was that she had been viciously  
attacked, probably with a knife. The paramedics had bandaged both of her  
arms and her chest and neck, and all of the bandages were soaked through  
with blood. The third thing that he noticed was that she was going to  
die. This was more of a personal judgment from the years that he had  
spent with the hospital, cleaning blood and witnessing the dying. That  
far off, glazed look that she had, that all of the ones who died had, as  
though already staring into the holy light.  
  
"Won't be long," he thought as he looked to the ground and sighed. They  
had left a trail of blood that ran all of the way down the hallway and  
disappeared around the corner. He sighed again as he turned his cart  
around and pushed it towards the janitor's closet. He didn't blame the  
woman for this one, but it was still a pain.  
  
Dr. Bruce Connor, M.D. looked at himself in a full length mirror, wiping  
his hands over the front of the white lab coat that he wore. He checked  
his hair, his teeth, and tilted his head back to check the insides of his  
nostrils. Though not muscular and shoulders that, to him, seemed too  
broad, he was a far cry from the awkward nerd with no friends that he had  
been in high school, lasik eye surgery and meticulous care of his skin  
had seen to that.  
  
He adjusted the stethoscope that hung around his neck before stepping out  
of his office and walking down the hall and to the elevator. He pushed  
the call button and waited, thinking about the options that life offered.  
Hs love life, that is.  
  
He had never felt comfortable in the club or bar scenes and had always  
ended up just standing by himself in a dark corner, watching as other  
guys "made it" with the good looking women. Leaning against the wall and  
holding a beer bottle or mixed drink with only a few sips missing and  
watching others dance in ways that his body would never move, or shoot  
pool or play darts with skills that he would never possess. All the  
while, the kind of women that he had always wanted to be with, the ones  
that wore tube tops that showed off their bellies and mini skirts so  
tight you didn't have to use imagination to know the shapes of their  
backsides, giggled and flirted with them. The beautiful women. They women  
that walked into a room and every head turned towards them with lust. The  
kind of women that would complement his success at becoming a doctor  
could be found in clubs and bars, but he still was not able to lure them  
to him.  
  
There was a ding as the elevator door opened and Bruce stepped inside and  
pressed the button for the main floor. He clasps his hands in front of  
him and figured that in a few months, six tops, it would all change. He  
had just become a doctor, but in around six months he would have saved up  
the money and gotten the credit that would allow him to buy a sports car,  
jewelry and clothes that the women at bars and clubs seemed attracted to.  
  
His mother's voice broke into his thoughts. A nagging, preaching voice  
that scolded him, and reminded him that the best woman for him to marry  
would not be one who would want him for his money, or the things that he  
had. He pushed the voice away. The point was, plain and simple, he wanted  
the trophy. He wanted the girl from the Girls Gone Wild videos. He wanted  
the envy of those who had been able to get the hot girls in high school,  
and had ignored their school work and were therefore destined to fail at  
the rest of life. It's what had carried him through the long hours of  
study to become a doctor, and he was not about to give up on the dream  
now that he was so close.  
  
The doors opened and he stepped into the emergency room and to the  
receptionist desk. There were only a few people waiting, just like usual,  
and he figured that it would be another slow night. He took the duty  
roster from his in box. He had just flipped it open to check who was at  
the hospital and who he would need to keep an eye on, when he noticed Ana  
Curtis walking towards the exit.  
  
Since coming to the hospital, he had been disappointed with the nurses  
that they had on staff. They were all capable and performed their jobs  
well, but they did not fit well into his fantasies. The thought of  
sweating tumblings with "hot" nurses on operating tables had also been  
one of the desires that had kept him in medical school, but upon being  
hired with the hospital, he soon learned that most where either too old  
for his taste, or too overweight.  
  
Ana was on the mark though. With blonde, shoulder length hair, a cute  
face, and a small frame, the top of her head only coming to his chin, she  
was definitely someone that Bruce would have liked to have known on a  
more personal level.  
  
He was about to call out to her, to run over and speak a few words when  
the receptionist broke in.  
  
"Dr. Connor," she spoke urgently. "You're needed in the O.R. right away!"  
  
He looked back to Ana just in time to see her step through the door and  
disappear into the parking lot.  
  
He flipped the roster close and briskly moved around the desk. He saw the  
night janitor, Chuck, mopping a line up the corridor in front of him, his  
mop bucket by his side. When he got closer, he noticed that Chuck was  
mopping up a trail of blood.  
  
He gave Chuck a quick nod and quickened his pace. His heart rate speed up  
and his mind wheeled as he wondered what he would find when he entered  
the O.R. What had happened to someone to make them loose blood like this?  
An image of an ambulance came to mind, its floor covered red as the  
paramedics fought to keep the person alive.  
  
"Probably needs blood," he thought as he followed the trail around a  
corner. The wisdom of ages filled his thoughts as he mapped out the major  
internal organs and the arteries that supplied them with blood. He would  
be able to mend them if necessary. If the heart had failed, he would be  
able to restart it. If the brain had ceased, he could get oxygen flowing  
to it again.  
  
When he entered the operating room, Dr. Timothy Taylor was already  
working on the patient, a woman from what Bruce could tell, as three  
nurses assisted. Dr. Taylor looked up briefly when Bruce entered.  
  
"Connor! Hurry, I need your help!" He returned his attention back to the  
woman.  
  
Bruce went to the sink and turned on the faucet.  
  
"Forget that," Dr. Taylor called. "Get over here!"  
  
A nurse was already to Bruce, a pair of latex gloves in her hands. She  
helped him with the gloves, and then helped him slid his arms into a  
green surgeon's coat, tying it in back as he went to the operating table.  
  
Another nurse stepped up to him with a white tray which held needles and  
surgical thread.  
  
"We need to get these wounds closed," Dr. Taylor didn't look up as he  
stitched. "The blood's not clotting."  
  
Her clothes had been cut away and Bruce looked down at the woman's nude  
body. She was covered with deep gashes that seeped blood. Sickening holes  
that revealed the muscle tissue and smooth, white bones of her arms and  
legs beneath. The tan brown of her stomach and smoky grey of her lung as  
it inflated and deflated with each of her breathes.  
  
He lifted a curved needle from the tray and was about to work on the  
wound exposing her lung when another caught his attention. It didn't go  
as deep as the others, and therefore left the impression on what had  
caused her injuries. It was on her left breast. A crescent shaped wound  
that dotted the skin over her nipple while another ran beneath in the  
unmistakable patterned of a bite mark.  
  
Bruce stared at the injury. He wanted to believe that she had been  
attacked by an animal. A large dog like a pit bull or a Rottweiler, but  
only one thing could have made the wound, and it was the same that had  
bitten chucks out of the rest of her body.  
  
"My God," he finally said in disbelief. "It's human." 


	2. Chapter 2

Andre held his hands together in a bowl under the faucet until it filled  
with water before bringing it to his face with a splash. He repeated  
this, splashing his face again and then rubbing his fingers over his  
eyebrows and messaging his temples as if trying to massage in the smooth  
coolness of the water. It did little to ease the throbbing behind his  
temples, however, or the stiffness at the base of his skull. The water  
did not wash away the reality of what he had just done, and what it would  
mean to his wife and soon to be born daughter.  
  
He brought his hands down and looked at himself in the mirror. How could  
it have all gone so wrong? Why did it go wrong? Why was it that when he  
made his one grab for happiness, one reach for the thing that everyone  
else on the whole fucking planet can get as easily as air, he was cursed  
to fail? Was God against him? Was he being punished for the life that he  
had lead? Was he not allowed to be happy? To live a quiet and peaceful  
life with his family?  
  
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. He had been to jail before. Had  
been going to jail since the age of ten in fact, but always for little  
petty stuff. Burglary. Drug possession. Vandalism. But never for murder,  
not until now. When the police came banging at his door this time, they  
were going to take him away for good.  
  
Andre thought back to the events that took place just two hours ago. It  
had all happened so fast that he never even had time to think. It was  
suppose to be a simple drug deal. He and a partner were supposed to sell  
fifty grand worth of crack cocaine to some Mexican guys for one and a  
half. Andre and "B", whose name was Brian, had done similar deals  
hundreds of times before. They knew a supplier and were able to get their  
drugs below street value, therefore making a nice profit. Seventy five  
thousand a piece, and that was to be Andre's last time. Afterwards, he  
would get a legitimate job, probably as a mechanic, and raise his  
daughter. The money, which he would not have told Luda how he got, would  
have insured that she and the baby would never be uncomfortable.  
  
But during the trade, the Mexicans had pulled out guns instead of money.  
"B" died in an instant. The Mexicans killing "B" first had gave him the  
time needed to dive for cover and pull out his own Berretta. There were  
three Mexicans, and one ran for Andre, gun in front. That's the one that  
Andre got. He had popped up like a jack-in-the-box and emptied his clip  
into the man's chest. The other two grabbed the drugs and ran.  
  
Andre paused just long enough for one last look at "B" before running  
himself. The entire exchange could not have taken more than ten seconds.  
In just tens seconds his best friend and his money had been lost. As soon  
as the police caught up to him, his freedom had been taken away as well.  
  
He blew out a long breath and turned off the running water. He then  
walked past the row of sinks and to the hand dryer, a bit disappointed  
that there were no paper towels. He pushed the chrome button and the  
dryer turned on, its motor building to a steady hum as a blast of warm  
air streamed from its nozzle.  
  
Andre turned the nozzle so that it faced up and put his head over it. He  
rubbed his hands over his face, wishing that the headache beneath his  
temples would go away, before bringing up the front of his shirt to wipe  
the remaining water from his face.  
  
"Aa-aah fuck," he let his arms drop to his sides.  
  
Once again, he had fucked up. The difference was that this time he gave a  
damn. He cared for Luda. He had other children. Three by three other  
woman, and he had walked out on them all. But he wanted to do right by  
this one. Luda had been there for him. Had dug through the muck of his  
soul and made him feel alive. Had made him want to be a better person.  
But it would never happen now. In as little as ten seconds, he had thrown  
it away, and nothing short of a miracle from God could change that. A  
miracle, or maybe the end of the world.  
  
He walked to the bathroom door and pushed it open. In the hallway, he  
headed towards the elevator. His footsteps made hollow, clopping sounds  
as his sneakers met with the clean tiles.  
  
After the shootout, he had arrived home to discover that Luda was in  
labor. Without even thinking, he had loaded her into the car and had  
driven her to the hospital. It at all seemed like an out of body  
experience, like he was watching himself drive on a television or  
something. He had gotten her to the hospital and the nurse, a large woman  
with a bit of a moustache, had Luda sit in a wheelchair and she brought  
her to a second floor room for observation. As it turned out, it was a  
false alarm and the contractions passed. The doctor had wanted Luda to  
stay and rest for a few hours though, and had given her a shot to help  
her sleep.  
  
Just before the elevator were two vending machines, one for soda and the  
other for snacks. He was about to pass them up when his stomach groined.  
He remembered that he had not eaten all day, so he stopped at the snack  
machine and looked over the selection. Finally, his eyes came to rest on  
a row of cheddar-ranch fritos. He didn't really care for them, but they  
were Luda's favorite. He put in fifty cents and made the select, the  
metal spring inside turned and a single bag of fritos dropped. From the  
soda machine, he selected 7up, also Luda's favorite. Snacks in hand, he  
headed back to Luda's room.  
  
"Clear!"  
  
There was the soft hum of electricity discharging and the Hispanic  
woman's body tensed under the currents. With a click, the voltage  
switched off and the woman went limp. Dr. Taylor brought the paddles away  
as Bruce lifted the woman's eyelids. He shined a pen light onto the  
coronas, but there was no movement. No opening and closing as the eyes  
reacted to protect the retinas that would have shown some sign of life,  
no matter how faint. In fact, as Bruce watched, the eyes actually seemed  
to be losing even the little remaining life that stayed inside of a body  
after a person had died. They began to fade from what was once a pretty  
brown into a cloudy grey.  
  
Bruce quickly figured that it was a result of the trauma that she went  
though.  
  
He closed her eyes and looked to Dr. Taylor, shaking his head.  
  
Dr. Taylor set the paddles down. The last shock was the third. Third  
time's the charm, and if nothing after that, well, it was game over. He  
looked to his watch.  
  
"Time of death," he paused until the seconds held reached the twelve.  
"Seven forty eight."  
  
Bruce watched as Dr. Taylor lifted the white sheet above the woman's  
head. It didn't make sense. They had repaired all of the damaged organs.  
Had closed all of the wounds, yet the woman continued to bleed. Her blood  
seeped through the stitches as if the devil himself were determined to  
see her dead. They had pumped fresh blood into her, but that came out too  
and Bruce had wondered, as foolish as the thought was, if her body were  
trying to get the blood out. It wasn't into her heart had stopped that  
she stopped bleeding.  
  
"Joann," Dr. Taylor turned to leave, not bothering to look at the nurse,  
"have the orderly take her downstairs."  
  
"Yes Doctor," the nurses turned with him.  
  
They all began to change out of the blood smeared operating smocks. They  
pealed off their rubber gloves and tossed them into a red can with a  
biohazard symbol painted on it in black.  
  
The nurses left as the doctors washed their hands in a large sink.  
  
"This your first?" Dr. Taylor did not look to Bruce.  
  
Bruce nodded "Yeah."  
  
"You never get used to it. You just learn how not to die along with  
them." Dr. Taylor picked up a towel and dried his hands as he left the  
ER.  
  
Bruce turned back to look at the body covered with the sheet. He had  
known since before he took his first medical class that one day, despite  
all of his best efforts, he would lose a patient. People die, plan and  
simple. Nothing could ever change that, not even doctors. At most, all  
that doctors could do was hold it off a little. Give a person just a  
little more time to live.  
  
But he did want to save her. He wanted to save her badly. Not to give  
himself some kind of satisfaction for performing a miracle. He wanted to  
save her so badly because someone, some animal hidden in the body of a  
person, had wanted so badly to kill her.  
  
"They'd better catch that son of a...," he froze.  
  
A thought came to him. The eyes. The blood. He had read somewhere that  
poisons could do that to a person. There were poisons out there that kept  
the blood from clotting and caused discoloration of the eyes. Sometimes  
making them red as they were filled with blood, but sometimes making them  
a milky white as it robbed them of oxygen.  
  
He went to the body and lifted the sheet. Reaching down, he opened the  
woman's eyelid.  
  
"Jesus," he whispered. The dead woman's eye was almost completely white.  
In the center, it was blood red in the shape of a circle that seemed to  
be growing wider.  
  
Bruce pulled out his pocket light and shined it into the eye. Looking  
deeply into it.  
  
A nurse entered. "Dr. Conner. You're needed in room three."  
  
"What is it," he didn't look up from the eye.  
  
"We're getting people...," Bruce looked up and noticed that the nurse was  
shaken. "There's a riot downtown. People are attacking other people.  
We're getting people who were... bitten. It's like they're trying to eat  
each other out there."  
  
Bruce looked back down at the woman. He pulled the sheet back over her  
and headed for the door.  
  
"We've got three ambulances coming in with people in bad shape." Bruce  
walked pass her and into the hallway.  
  
Bruce could hear the crowd as they chattered in the waiting room. He  
walked down the corridor and looked down the hall. It was filled with  
people, most holding their wounded arms or legs, the rest comforting the  
injured.  
  
The nurse ran to stand next to Bruce.  
  
"All of them bitten?" Bruce asked, eyes wide.  
  
The nurse shook her head. "It's like they're trying to eat each other."  
  
Luda opened her eyes when she heard Andre setting the bag of chips and  
soda down on the table beside her bed. She smiled at him, fighting the  
drug that the doctor had injected into her system to make her sleep.  
  
Andre looked back at her and smiled back. "I thought that you might be  
hungry after your nap," he whispered to her.  
  
"Thank you," she tried to lift her head, but it felt like it weighed a  
ton so she kept it on the pillow.  
  
"Thank you," Andre repeated, mimicking her Russian accent and smiling.  
  
Mimicking her was one of the things that he liked to do whenever they  
were alone. He said that it was one of the things that he loved about  
her, which always made her feel better. Since coming to the United States  
three year ago, she had always felt somewhat alone. Like an outsider  
because of the things that made her different, but Andre had not only  
accepted her differences, he had embraced them.  
  
She studied his face. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," he answered too quickly and forced a smile.  
  
"You sure?" She was becoming more worried. Andre was shaking and his eyes  
watered up. She once again tried to lift herself, but the drugs were too  
strong. She would not be awake much longer.  
  
"Positive." He rubbed her stomach. Caressed it, and then leaned down and  
kissed it. He then kissed her on the lips. "Get some sleep."  
  
She knew something was wrong. It was in his face and she would get him to  
tell her what it was so that could handle it together. She just needed to  
close her eyes for a moment. Her thoughts were too full of cobwebs now.  
She just needed to close her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts.  
  
When she opened them again, Andre was gone.  
  
Luda closed her eyes and slept.  
  
Chuck pushed his cart into the ER and frowned. He had hoped that they  
would have taken the body away before he had gotten there, but it still  
laid on the operating table, covered with a white sheet.  
  
Chuck pushed the cart to a wall and looked over the cleaning supplies.  
Bidding his time. He had overheard a nurse calling for the orderlies to  
remove the body and take it to the morgue in the basement, so it would  
not be long before they arrived.  
  
"Lazy bastards," Chuck mumbled. He had given them more than enough time  
to have come in and get her. They were just slow. Slow and lazy.  
  
Chuck looked back at the scene, trying not to look at the body. He went  
over what he would clean in his mind and decided to just give it a quick  
once over. He had also heard the nurses mention that there was a riot  
downtown. If the waiting room was any indication, then more than that  
woman's blood would be hitting the floor tonight.  
  
Besides, they would probably need the room again too soon for him to do  
too good of a cleaning.  
  
Mike and Todd, the two orderlies, entered the room, pushes a mobile  
gurney. Mike looked to Chuck and cracked a smile.  
  
"I didn't need you after all," he joked to Todd. "Chuck could have helped  
me move her."  
  
"Shit," Chuck reached into the cart and pulled out a bottom full of  
liquid, "death ain't about to ease up into me."  
  
The orderlies laughed as they wheeled the gurney next to the operating  
table. Mike stood at the woman's head as Todd took her feet. On three,  
they transferred her to the gurney, sheet included.  
  
"I'm going on break," Todd turned and walked out of the door.  
  
Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out a toe tag. He crossed to the  
woman's feet and lifted the sheet. He placed the tag around her right big  
toe before covering her up again.  
  
Grabbing hold of the gurney, he leaned and wheeled the body out of the  
ER.  
  
Chuck went to the operating table and began spraying it with the  
disinfectant.  
  
The elevator doors opened and Andre stepped out, almost bumping into a  
man wearing a sky blue smock and wheeling a dead body into the elevator.  
  
He half expected the body to sit up and the sheet to fall revealing the  
corpse of the Mexican that he had shoot, pointing an accusing finger at  
him.  
  
Andre stepped to the side to allow the orderly to enter, and raised his  
arm across the elevator door so that it would not close.  
  
"Thank you," the orderly said as her stepped into the elevator.  
  
Andre nodded, and once the orderly was inside, turned and walked down the  
hallway to the waiting room.  
  
His jaw dropped at the sight. The room was full of people, most with  
bloody gashes on their arms or legs. Some with gashes on their faces.  
  
Inaudible as he looked around the room: "What the fuck?"  
  
In the elevator, Mike pushed the basement button. When the doors closed,  
he lifted the sheet from the woman's face and upper body.  
  
She had been a pretty woman, and, though covered in bruises, had a nice  
body. Mike had noticed that she was still warm when he placed on the toe  
tag, and that she had nice feet. Young feet.  
  
Most of the people who died in the hospital where older, but she looked  
to be around thirty or so. And although the stitches running up and down  
her body made her look a bit like the Frankenstein monster, she looked  
very doable. So long as she was warm. Warm, and loose.  
  
Mike lowered the sheet when the elevator stopped on the basement level  
and the doors opened.  
  
He pushed the gurney into the hall leading to the morgue.  
  
He would be alone there since very few people ever came to the basement.  
If they needed him, they would call. He figured that he would have a good  
hour with her before the body dropped to room temperature, and she would  
be too stiff to...  
  
The body suddenly sat up.  
  
Mike let out a cry and jumped back. A second later and he sighed, already  
beginning to relax. He had worked in the morgue for over ten years, and  
moving bodies were nothing new to him. Those last bits off movement that  
bodies made, be it a twitch of the arm, or burp, or sitting up, were not  
uncommon, but they still could take your breathe away.  
  
Mike crossed to the body to lay it back down. Sometimes, when the muscles  
relaxed again, the bodies would fall to the floor. It was always better  
to guide them down than to have to pick them up.  
  
He reached for the body and froze. There was movement as the dead woman's  
hands worked and then pulled the sheet from her head. Her eyes were open  
and wide as she stared ahead and then side to side as though confused at  
her surroundings.  
  
Her eyes landed on Mike, who stood frozen in his spot, the hand that he  
was going to guide her with still in the air.  
  
The air left Mike in a shaken gasps as he stared into the thing's eyes.  
The pupils were red, as though made of pure blood, and wild like an  
animal's.  
  
She roared and reached for Mike's outstretched hand and digging her nails  
into the flesh of his arm.  
  
Mike yelled and through himself backwards, tripping and landing hard on  
the floor between the wall and the gurney.  
  
In an instant, the woman leap to the floor, standing over Mike and  
arching her back, exposing her teeth and brandishing her nails. She  
roared again, a maddening thing that made no sense.  
  
"I'm sorry," Mike cried and threw his arms over his head. He was sorry  
that for what he was about to do to her body. Sorry for what he had done  
to the bodies of other women that he had taken to his morgue. Sorry that  
his sins had awaken this great evil to punish him.  
  
The creature leap onto him, sinking her nails into his arm and holding it  
as she bit a mouthful of flesh from just below the elbow.  
  
Mike screamed and struggled to get free. To get her off of him. His  
struggles exposed his face and she clumped her teeth onto his left cheek.  
Mike screamed as she tore the flesh from him, chewed, and swallowed.  
  
Mike fought to roll over onto his stomach and he threw his arms back over  
his head. Anything to keep her from biting his face again.  
  
"I'm sorry," he shouted again.  
  
The creature tried to roll him back over and get back to the soft tissue  
of his face when it realized that the flesh of the arms that protected  
his head would be just was good.  
  
She brought her head down and bit deeply into his arm below the shoulder.  
  
Mike screamed and raised himself to his knees. He tried to shake her off  
of his back, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She held tightly onto  
his shirt as he tried to shake her.  
  
With a yell, Mike lifted himself to his feet, the woman still on his  
back. He shook and she fell, crashing to the floor. He ran for the  
elevator, but his steps seemed awkward and his head spun. The elevator  
doors seemed to turn like the dials on a clock.  
  
The creature swallowed the meat in her mouth and stood. With a roar, it  
charged Mike from behind, leaping into the air and landing onto his back.  
It wrapped its arms around Mikes chest and its legs wrapped around his.  
  
Mike fell, his vision already beginning to blur. The elevator had turned  
a complete circle and was going again when he felt the woman's teeth on  
his temple. The elevator turned upside down, turned red, and then faded  
all together.  
  
(Chase, thanks for the great words. But now I'm looking forward to  
reading your version of the hospital. After you finish with Day, you  
should go for it. By the way, I'm not ignoring you, or anyone here. It's  
just that the equation of my life is WORK SCHOOL GIRLFRIEND = NOT  
MUCH TIME, but I read, post reviews, visit recommend sites, and write as  
often as I can). 


	3. Chapter 3

He felt as though he were floating. A red balloon filled with helium almost to the breaking point. He was lost in a never ending sea of darkness, drifting wherever the tides carried him. Then the lights came on, dim at first, everything in dull shadows. Brighter and brighter the overhead lights got, spilling out unforgiving rays of helium beams too bright to look at. Brighter than the sun. It made the pounding beneath his temples even worse. The aches that he felt all over his body stood up and cheered.  
  
Mike shielded his eyes, and peeked through the tiny slits his eyelids had closed into. A moment and his eyes adjusted. He looked around and realized that he was in the hospital that he worked at. Everything else was a haze. The drive there, what happened just five minutes ago, why he was standing in the hospital basement hall which lead to the morgue, staring at the elevator doors.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
It wasn't really a voice. More of a feeling from somewhere deep inside. That urge that might make any average Joe get up and grab a bag of potato chips even when he wasn't hungry. That little twinkle of desire that always seemed to move people, but never had their best interest in mind.  
  
He was about to turn when he heard it and stopped himself. Whatever it was, it was big, and it was feeding. Chewing. Slurping. Smacking its lips and tearing flesh from bone. Dread filled him like the rising tide and washed over him, drowning him in an ocean of fear.  
  
"No thanks," he told the urge. "I don't think I want to see it, whatever it is."  
  
The elevator doors parted in front of him as if on cue. Inside was one of those old projector screens that you pulled down from a metal green tube resting on a tripod. On the screen was a still picture of a chubby kid. A boy of seven, sporting a crew cut and looking out of the screen at him, a question mark on his face.  
  
Mike stared at the screen, his brows furrowed and his mouth a gap. He knew who the kid was, had recognized him instantly, but continued to stare as though there was something alien about the boy.   
  
"It's me," he finally said.   
  
There was a click and the boy's position shifted on the screen, almost too small to notice. Another click and the boy moved again, further to the left and his expression began to change.  
  
CLICK….CLICK….CLICK….CLICK  
  
The boy smiled at him from the screen, spreading his chubby cheeks ear to ear and showing his teeth as he happily rocked side to side.  
  
"Damn," he smiled himself as fond memories of Christmas and Easters past entered his mind. "I was even fat as a kid."  
  
The boy's smile began to fade and his eyes grew large, filling with terror. They overflowed and spilled onto his mouth, turning his smile upside down. The boy turned and ran, leaning forward and arms pumping.  
  
"Don't look at it," Mike shouted to the screen of the feeding creature behind him. "Just don't look at it and it can't hurt you."  
  
The picture faded out.  
  
"Come back little buddy."  
  
The screen lit up again, this time with a freeze frame of his parents in heated debate.   
  
"No," Mike studied the picture. He eyed the man. Something wasn't as it seemed, though he couldn't figure out what. It toyed around with his brain, slithered over it like a serpent after a rat before he was finally able to grasps it. "He's not my father."  
  
The clicking noise filled the air again as the image before him stumbled into life. His mom and Earl, her boyfriend, or at least one of them, argued on the silent screen. You didn't have to hear them to know that they were shouting at the top of their lungs. They drew in deep breathes before they spoke, exposing their teethe like fangs, and yelled out the words with so much force you could see the veins in their throats rise, threatening to exploded from the strain.  
  
"I remember this," Mike's face was the drama mask of sadness. "No."  
  
Earl suddenly rocketed off a punch that caught his mother in the eye. She spin, her head first from the impact, followed by her body and finally her arms which sailed through the air like handle bar tassels in a strong wind. She hit the ground and Earl was on top of her, shoving her arms out of the way as she fought to cover her head and having his way with her face.  
  
The camera panned and zoomed in on the chubby boy, a year older than before. He was sitting on the floor, his back against a wall and his knees pulled to his chin as tears ran down his cheeks like a summer storm.  
  
The pain in Mike's head attacked his brain like red hot spikes being driven in by a small girl with no hammer, instead slowly tapping each by hand. No sudden release to bring the pain to an end. Only an eternity of suffering. A living, hellish thing that seemed to enjoy his torment.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
"I said no," Mike rubbed at his temples in a vain attempt to squash the pain.  
  
The scene cut to the chubby boy at seven again, still running away from Mike and whatever it was feeding behind him.   
  
"It's okay," he spoke more to himself than the boy on the screen. "It's okay. It'll all be okay."  
  
The running boy faded away and the screen went blank again.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
The creature behind him was still feeding. Still tearing into the flesh of whatever had been unlucky enough to have been caught by it.  
  
"It's been feeding for awhile now. Whatever it caught must have been pretty big. Turn around see what it is."  
  
"Go to Hell," Mike hissed. "I'm out of here."  
  
He had intended to walk into the elevator. To get in with the movie screen, reach for the row on buttons with his left hand and not turn around until the doors had closed. That was the plan, anyway. Reality had other plans for him though, and he wasn't about to move from that spot. Not a step. Not an inch. No matter how hard he tried.  
  
"You can turn around if you want. Go ahead. Look behind you."  
  
"Shut-up god damn-it!" He wished that the urge was a real thing. Something solid and made of soft flesh so that he could hit it and release the frustration building inside him. So he could make it bleed.  
  
The screen came to life again, this time with the image of a girl, perhaps seventeen, with stringy brunette hair that looked like she had brushed it while standing next to a power line. A so-so face, flat chested, and a natural beer belly, she was nothing to go bragging to the guys about in the locker room, but she had been Mike's first, if not in the traditional phrase of the word.  
  
"She never would give up that qooch," Mike mused. "But she did let me in the back door. Saved a bundle on condoms."  
  
He started to laugh, but the pain reasserted itself throughout his body as if to say it was no laughing matter.   
  
He stared at the girl, trying to remember her name. It buzzed around his brain like a fly that you wanted to swat, but never could get your hands on.   
  
"What's her name damn-it," his agitation grew. He had dated the girl on the screen for over three years. All through high school until…  
  
Something broke them up. Something he did.  
  
"What's her name," he closed his eyes tight in an effort to remember, but he might as well have kept them open. "Shit."  
  
He opened his eyes and stared at the picture of a girl with small breast and a large gut.  
  
"…"  
  
For the life of him, he didn't know who she was, but could escape the feeling that he knew her.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
"Fuck off and die," he spat.  
  
The girl vanished, replaced by some kid running. A chubby kid that would every now and then look over his shoulder at Mike in terror.  
  
"That's right kid," Mike gazed at the boy, almost not seeing him at all. "Run fatty. Run your fat little ass off because the bad people are out tonight, and they want to know what your insides feel like."  
  
The boy faded away, leaving only the dull flat screen for Mike to stare at.   
  
"God to fucking hell, what's wrong with me."   
  
Three women appeared on the screen, all naked. One looked like she may have been a great grand mother. The second was little more that a walking skeleton with track marks on her arms and the burn marks of crack pipes on her fingers. The third was large enough to look like she may have eaten a fourth.  
  
"…"  
  
His brain fought hard to reach through the pain and place the faces.  
  
"…"  
  
"…"  
  
"The shit I'd stick my dick into," he smiled.   
  
CLICK…CLICK….CLICK….CLICK….  
  
The picture came to life and the women walked towards him, smiling and mouthing his name.  
  
A sharp pain in his head like somebody slapped a vise onto it and kicked it into the squeeze direction made him close his eyes. When he opened them again, three woman that he didn't recognize stood nude on the screen in a still photo.  
  
"…"  
  
The women vanished, replaced buy a fat kid, running in the opposite direction.  
  
"Who the fuck is that…," his brain fought to find the word. It was a losing battle. "…him. Who the fuck him… doing. Little mother fucker. Mother fucker!"  
  
A crack formed in a dark and damp place deep within him and anger began to ooze out like toxic waste in a city's drinking water.   
  
The kid faded away and Mike was glad to see him go. An urge had taken root inside of him and began to grow like a weed to attack the projection screen in an attempt to get to the kid. A soft thumping that entered his thoughts like…  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
"LEAVE EM FUCK ALONE." Mick shouted at the top of his lungs as if trying to drown the urge out.  
  
The picture of a man standing in a hospital morgue appeared on the screen. Mike instantly didn't like the man. He reminded him of the running boy, only bigger. As the seconds passed, Mike was more and more sure that if he could, he would hurt the boy, big or not.   
  
The man on the screen was looking down at something. Mike followed the man's gaze and realized that he was staring at a dead woman. She laid on the metal slab, her silky black skin a contras to the reflective chrome. Mike's gaze went to her chest, her perfectly shaped breast, her delicious looking darker nipples.  
  
"Good," a line of drool ran from Mikes lip and landed on the front of his sky blue smock.   
  
CLICK…CLICK…CLICK…CLICK…  
  
The man in the morgue began to move. He reached down to his zipper and gave it a tug. He looked down at the woman's corpse was though they were old lovers on vacation as he climbed onto her.  
  
"Good," Mike grunted. "Feel good. Good. Good inside. Good. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."  
  
The morgue vanished, replaced by a fat boy running away.   
  
Mike howled like a bear caught in a trap. A mixture of frustration and anger that hit him like a tsunami. He had wanted to shout out "I'll fucking kill you," but the words wouldn't form, coming out instead as another howl.  
  
The screen spun on the tripod like a wind chime before tilting forward and the boy was thrown out. He landed on his feet and stumbled forward before regaining his balance in front of Mike. The screen behind the boy continued it forward fall and crashed to the floor.  
  
The kid stared up at Mike, doing his impersonation of a deer in headlights. Mike stared back.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
The boy's eyes began to glow. A shimmering yellow like sunlight reflecting off of a freshly polished bar of solid gold.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
The glow expanded over the boy's eyebrows and down his cheeks and spread over his head as if the sun was rising just to shine on him.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
The glow ran down the boys neck and shoulders and chest. It covered his arms and hand and sparkled from his fingertips. It shimmered over his stomach, past his groin and down his legs stopping only when it coated his feet.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
The glow was a happy thing. A desirable thing. The thing dreams were made of. The thing wars were fought for. The thing that broke promises and broke hearts.   
  
…  
  
…  
  
Mike reached up with a hand that seemed to belong to someone else like the hand in a first person shooter game. At his command, but not really his. A lifeless and artificial thing that moved with the push of a button to coldly carry out its task. The dead hand touched the boy on the forehead, and he screamed.  
  
It was a shriek of death and torment. Blood splattered out of the boys nose and his eyes exploded it their sockets. Dams cracked and crumbled as floods of crimson erupted from his ears. The boy titled his head back, hitched a breath and screamed again. Life blood left his body in a spray, rising up his throat and out of his mouth like a red water spout.   
  
The boy's legs gave way and he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. The turrets of blood subsided and there was no movement. Not a breath. Not a twitch.  
  
The chewing behind Mike stopped. The pain went away.  
  
…  
  
…  
  
…   
  
Mike looked at his hand. It was covered with the boy's blood and glowing with the same yellow light that covered the boy. He brought his hand to his face for a closer look when the glow suddenly faded out like a spent light bulb.  
  
He looked at the boy, and the glow began to fade from him as well, and in a hurry.   
  
Desire ripped its way through Mike like a bolt of lightening, charging his jumbled thoughts with wild hunger, electrocuting anything else. Everything that once made the man, love, hope, and fear, died instantly, burnt beyond recognition, their ashes blown away by the wind. Desire filled him to the brim, selfish and heartless. He would have the boy's glow.   
  
It would be his glow.  
  
All his and his alone.  
  
"Make it yours."  
  
Mike roared at jumped on top of the small body like a wild dog on a field mouse. He tore at the boys clothes, trying to find the source of the glow, at once realizing that it was the boy's flesh that was glowing.  
  
He opened his mouth and brought them down on the boy's throat, and the kid vanished.  
  
Mike looked at his hands desperately, then to the floor and clawed at it as though he could dig the boy up from the tiles.  
  
"Look behind you."  
  
He turned.  
  
A body was face down on the floor before him. It was a man, ripped apart by an animal, chunks of flesh eaten away from his arms and shoulders. The shredded blue smock the man wore was soaked red with blood like something out of a cheap B horror movie.   
  
Mike could just stare at the dead man, not able to figure out what was so familiar about him. He just stared, and he felt himself begin to sink.

* * *

He was suddenly staring at the floor. It was white and covered with something red and wet.   
  
With one quick motion, he lifted himself with his arms and threw his legs under himself, standing.  
  
He didn't know where he was. Someplace with white walls.  
  
A noise behind him.  
  
He spun around, his eyes drawn to movement. It was a naked lady walking away from him. He didn't care.  
  
She didn't have what he was looking for.  
  
What was he looking for?  
  
He didn't know, but he would if he saw it. Then, he would make it his.   
  
He stood in his spot, watching the woman walk down the hall until she reached a corner and disappeared around it. He looked on for a minute longer before he turned and saw two large doors pressed together.  
  
He looked at them, and slowly shifted his gaze to the single button beside the doors.  
  
He stared at the button.  
  
He then walked to it and the hand that was no longer his raised and pressed it.  
  
A second later, there was a soft ding as the elevator doors slide open.

* * *

(Special thanks to Chases Aces for keeping me going for your great reviews and little nudges. Also thanks to Zarbok. I hope you enjoy the rest) 


End file.
